Two Poems by Rod Farmer


Rapid Fire

I killed time now time
is killing me;
every minute I hear time’s
automatic weapons,
a machine gun aimed at blank sky,
rapidly firing;
the bullets that
are my days
disappear into
the empty air.

 

Wet Saigon

In Saigon in ‘69,
once the Paris of the Orient
now fading fast in abnormal air
as sex runs high down streets
like full open street sewers
after a monsoon rain.
Everyone, the bar girls dressed
in sex, the pimps banking on sex,
the soldiers drunks on sex,
everyone smiles,
especially the GIs,
these pale sons of Henry Miller,
they all fail to think
it through so the tears
are unconsciously aborted,
guilt will overflow later,
like flooding street sewers.

Rod Farmer